Light in the Dark
by OccasionallyCreative
Summary: Humanity never appealed to Sherlock Holmes. Until she came along. Victorian Vamp!lock fic.
1. Part I

The darkness was what he saw. Every day, for centuries, he had been stumbling in the darkness, never stopping and never resting.

The only light was her. She was different; every time, she was different. But her face was always the same. Always that lovely smile, and those enchanting brown eyes. And every time, he wanted her. He wanted to touch her, smell her… taste her.

* * *

The first time they had met had been when she was a governess in the home of his then current employer. At first, he didn't notice her—governesses were never interesting creatures—but something about her struck him. She had been in the schoolroom, the first time they had met. His employer had insisted on him meeting her, and it was social etiquette to concede to his demand.

When he found her, she had been sitting at her desk, reading.

"Sherlock Holmes," he drawled as a way of greeting. She immediately stood and bowed her head in response.

"Molly Hooper. Does the master send for me?"

"No. He insisted we meet," he said, playing thoughtlessly with the pages of her open book.

"Please don't touch that."

He looked up. "Pardon?"

"That book. It's… well, it doesn't matter. I'm sorry," she added, clearly flustered. By what, he couldn't quite tell. But he had an impression that it was him who agitated her. The fact amused him somewhat, and he couldn't help but smile as he stepped towards her.

"Are you frightened by me, Miss Hooper?"

She hesitated before answering. "N-no."

"Your body language begs to differ." He took another step towards her. She was almost backed against the bookcase now.

"I am not afraid," she declared, tilting her head up slightly in an attempt to meet his eyes.

He saw it then. Beyond her pale cheeks, and her quickness of breath, there was ferocity in those deep brown eyes of hers. A ferocity that betrayed a daily passion she fought to repress. And he believed her; she was not indeed afraid.

In a strange way, she was actually quite beguiling.

He leaned closer. If he had so desired, he might've kissed her. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hooper."

Her lips parted slightly as she attempted to reply in kind. But nothing was said. Her gaze was focused on his features, as if she were trying to drink it all in at once.

Sherlock merely smirked and swept out of the room.

Miss Molly Hooper. Such a _fascinating_ creature…

* * *

Over the next few days, he had no chance to meet her again, as he was embroiled in the case his employer had provided him; a case that had proved much more complicated than when he first accepted it.

Much like a certain governess he had encountered.

* * *

Their second meeting was too crowded for his tastes. His employer had had the inclination to host a society ball in his honour, and so Sherlock was practically forced to attend.

He did his bit; here and there, he mingled with the guests, conversed with some of the more interesting parties and drank as much champagne as was polite to do so. It was all so very dull.

So when he noticed her standing alone at the balcony, he made his excuses and slipped from the room.

* * *

The air outside was a great deal cooler than the ballroom, and so not many guests had made their way outside. In fact, Miss Hooper was the only one there. In her hands, she held a champagne flute, but she was yet to drink from it. Her mind appeared to be elsewhere, and when he greeted her, a crimson red flush grew over her cheeks, informing him just of where her mind had been.

He smiled and placed his own glass beside hers.

"Did I disturb you?"

"No—not at all," she said, smiling. Her eyes however, relayed that he had. But he did not pursue the subject. He had enough experience to know when a lady preferred her thoughts to be private.

"Beautiful, is it not?" he said, leaning against the balcony. On seeing her puzzled frown, he gestured towards the night sky.

She smiled, realising. "Oh, yes. Of course. I apologise."

"There's no need to be sorry, Miss Hooper," he said with another smile. "I presume that that was what you distracted by?"

"Yes, Mr Holmes. I do so love to see the stars. It—no, I shan't say."

"Why ever not?"

"You shall laugh at me, and tease me."

Sherlock chuckled. She had such a thirst for knowledge, yet it was so contained within her fragile humanity. "Miss Hooper, how I can tease you about something that I do not know?"

"Other people have teased me."

"I am not like the others. Tell me."

Finally, she looked at him. "Seeing the stars, well… It makes me feel like I am not alone. That there are others out there."

For a long time, he remained silent as her words rolled in his mind. It shouldn't have been so surprising for a governess to be so inquisitive, and yet it was. He thought back to the way in which she had behaved at their first meeting in the schoolroom. Even then, he had seen how uncomfortable she was in that place; how despite having worked there for a year, she still didn't seem at home amongst the books and the desks.

"You dislike it."

"Pardon?"

"Your job. In fact, you don't just dislike it. You loathe it. It's why you love looking at the stars so much. When I first saw you, you were reading a book on anatomy. Lord Fanhurst's daughter and son are barely seven years of age, more prone to mathematics and English than the science of the human brain. So tell me, Miss Hooper, why be a governess when you so clearly desire to be something else entirely? I would think by your standard of dress and the way you conduct yourself around your superiors that you come from a family of poor circumstances, hence the need for a job which pays well and is suitable to your class. So you chose to be a governess, but only until you have amassed enough wages to—"

A sharp slap to his cheek prevented him from continuing. Her eyes were ablaze with hurt.

"That's enough, Mr Holmes," she said, her voice sharp in the silence.

"I highly doubt that. I'd wager that you wish to become a scientist." He didn't quite know why he had continued to speak. There was no need for him to prove himself to her; but he had to admit, there was some entertainment to be had in seeing the way in which her pale breasts rose and fell as she struggled to maintain her composure. He continued. "I shall admit, it isn't uncommon in these times for a woman to have such aspirations, but biology? That's an altogether more difficult career path."

Quietly, she turned away from him, looking to the stars.

"They told me of your skills, Mr Holmes. They failed to inform me how hurtful they could be."

He had clutched at her hand before he realised he had done so. It was without hesitation or compunction that he pulled her forwards and captured her mouth with his. In contrary to what he expected, she did not squeak, nor did she resist. Her breath caught as he deepened their kiss. He had only caught shades of it before, but now, with her body tightly pressed against his body and her warms lips against his, he could almost taste it. The warm, metallic smell of her blood, mixed in with the delicate, soft scent of her perfume.

Yes. Certainly beguiling.

She was the one to pull away, and another slap was aimed at his cheek. But it didn't land. His hand caught her wrist, and his stare locked onto hers.

"You will not strike me again."

"What do you want?" she asked softly.

He wanted many things. He wanted to punish her for striking him; wanted to taste her like he had done with so many others; wanted to be engulfed by that sweet, sweet scent.

He moved closer towards her, his footsteps barely making a sound.

"You, Miss Hooper. To someone like me, you are very tempting," he said softly, his eyes black in the dark light.

Yes, he did want her. But he wanted her alive.

So he let her go, his eyes once more back to their normal form.

With a smile, he raised her glass to her. "I look forward to our next meeting, Miss Hooper."

"There will be no next meeting, Mr Holmes."

She turned away, and never looked back.

* * *

The next morning, he awoke to find that Miss Molly Hooper was no longer in the schoolroom, and the book with which he used to deduce her past was missing. It was over dinner later that evening that his employer announced that what Sherlock had already worked out.

"As it may have come to your attention by now, Miss Hooper has terminated her tenure here. She departed early this morning."

"Any reason?"

"She claimed it was to advance her career. I assume she has another governess post waiting. A woman of her breeding, there's little else she can do."

That afternoon, the criminal was apprehended, and the great detective Sherlock Holmes had departed Lord Fanhurst's company. If she had gone, there was no real reason for him to prolong his stay.


	2. Part II

_**Author's Note:**_ _To be honest, this is mostly plot (as well as probably the shortest chapter within the whole story), though I do promise that Sherlolly goodness is coming soon. For some reason though, this was the hardest chapter to write without having either Sherlock or Molly massively OOC. I've lost count of the amount of times I've written and rewritten this to stop that from happening. _

_However, please don't forget to leave a comment telling me your thoughts. I'd love to hear what you think!_

* * *

For an immortal creature like him, time was rather meaningless. Cases came and went, and his enemies barely lasted a month—if he could be bothered. Any acquaintances he made were soon forgotten, and if he deigned to involve himself with a woman, the affair would last little more than a week. It contented him not to make attachments; such things distracted him from his work. Occasionally, he would attend a social function or two, but none ever really captured his interest.

Yes, nothing really caught his attention. Nothing except the small and brown-haired former governess whom he had not seen since their encounter that evening so many months ago.

* * *

It was his current case that reunited them. The case he had taken had been provided to him by Scotland Yard. They had been uselessly chasing down non-existent leads in an attempt to find the man that the media had so unimaginatively nicknamed "The Butcher". Many theories had been bandied about in newspapers and through salacious gossip, but none of them ever held true. But Sherlock continued his work. He may have been a monster himself, but he was a monster out of need. This was a monster of the very worst kind; this was a monster driven by the desire of a sick mind.

It was midnight when he visited the morgue that evening, and on entering, it was to his pleasant surprise that he found the body of the fifth victim. It was her mutilated body that betrayed the full vulgarity of the killer's mind. But Sherlock was not squeamish, and nor was he a coward. He would not have accepted the case if he was such a thing. He took a step forward and gently leaned over the body.

"What are you doing?" a crisp, female voice asked.

Oh, such a coincidence as this was far, _far_ too delicious. With a low chuckle, he straightened himself up and turned to face her. She was as beautiful as he remembered.

"Miss Hooper," he said, bowing his head slightly.

"Mr Holmes." Her crisp demeanour was slipping now that she had recognised him.

He stepped forward, his footsteps echoing. "I thought you might be a little more delighted to see me."

"I'm afraid not. Now, if you'd kindly leave—"

"I can't do that. You see, I've been assigned to this case."

"Scotland Yard? They—they gave you the case?"

"Why so surprised Miss Hooper? You work here; surely you know the difficulties London's police forces are facing?"

Her expression darkened. "Do not patronise me, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock smiled a little to himself. It was not just her beauty that had remained unchanged.

"I suppose," he said after a moment, "that you were the only one who could stomach the sight of this poor young lady?"

"No. The workers of this morgue are all well-seasoned in the art of dissecting a body. I wanted to work on this case."

He had to admit, that didn't really surprise him; that a woman of her somewhat... complex nature could stomach the sight of her gender being abused in such a way was only a logical assumption.

"So, Miss Hooper, enlighten me. What is your opinion of the man who would create such horrors as this?" he asked, gesturing towards the body on the slab.

"He is certainly not a creator, Mr Holmes." His silence caused her to continue. "He is nothing but a vandal. Without thought or remorse, he kills these women because he believes them to beneath him. Such vandals should be brought to justice."

When she looked at him, her eyes were steely.

Sherlock smiled. "Five pounds a week. That is my charge."

"Pardon?"

"You wish to see this murderer brought to justice, as do I. I suggest then that we do not tally. If you will become my assistant on this case and do the duties I provide to you, I will provide you with five pounds a week and a room at my lodgings. The landlady, Mrs Hudson, is perfectly amiable and will service you with any domestic needs you may have. You shall only have to stay for the duration it takes to bring the killer to justice. If you wish to stay on for longer however, you may. Of course, whilst you are living there, we shall have to pose as brother and sister in order to avoid any gossip that may do your reputation damage. Aside from that, I see no real problems. After all, you will be always on hand to assist, and my lodgings are only a short cab ride away from the station."

She was quiet for a moment as she considered her answer. "In concern to your offer of becoming your assistant, I accept. As to your other offer, I must respectfully decline. My own lodgings are fine enough." She smiled and turned swiftly on her heel, moving past him and towards the body.

It was only at the last moment that she turned back to face him. "Do not mistake me, Mr Holmes. I'm perfectly willing to assist you in any capacity on this case, but considering our previous meetings together, I think it would be better for both of us to live apart."

She continued on with her work without another word, and for a moment, Sherlock remained where he stood as he watched her. Ever so slowly, his lips twitched into a content smile.

He had never looked forward to a case more than he did this one.


	3. Part III

He had never meant for it to go this wrong. Head spinning, he struggled against the alley walls. His body was at war with his mind; his mind was roaring at him, spitting out deductions about everything he heard, felt and touched.

The walls. Mud, mixed in with brick. Recent rain. _Petrichor._

No, no. He must not _think_. He must not _feel_.

With effort, he straightened himself against the alley walls, his dark curls now damp with cloying, drying blood.

Her tears were the first thing he heard. Her form was the first thing he saw. Her dress was cheap; something more akin to the garments of prostitutes than the garments of a logically-minded pathologist.

Yet that was what they had come for. That was why she was dressed in such a manner. Was it not?

Yes it was. Guilt ticked away at the back of his frantic, blood-fuelled mind.

His gaze swept over the rest of the scene that lay before him, as he pulled his hand across his now wet mouth. Blood shined on the material of his coat—the same blood that the man once known as "The Butcher" was soaked in.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember.

* * *

Ten past the hour, it had been, and she had been quietly patrolling the alleyways for some time; he had been following her all the while, as they had agreed, hiding himself away in the shadows. The prostitutes that they passed occasionally called out to her, chiding her as nothing but fresh meat, innocent and unplucked. Yet she continued on, her back straight and her eyes suitably wide. But she still was not suited to such haunts as these. The prostitutes were right; she was too pale, too pure, too inexperienced. Hardly ideal for field work. Stupidly, he had thought that the purity of her appearance would tempt the killer. After months of searching, and pursuing useless leads, this had been the last resort—and one that had clearly failed.

He made to step forward and take her home when it happened. Hands gripped at her throat, pushing her towards the floor. Her breath caught, and then spluttered as her soft features hardened into a vivid red.

Sherlock had little knowledge or memory of what had happened afterwards. If he could remember anything, he only remembered the rage that had flooded him; the rage of knowing that his sweet pathologist was being harmed.

* * *

His lips tingled with the memory of his teeth sinking and tearing at the man's throat. All over again, the metallic taste stung at his nerves and at his brain cells and his ears pumped with the sound of her horrified screams.

Now however, there was silence. And as his mind raced through eons of deductions, he saw how the blood had spattered around her, droplets covering her face and garments as she cried, fear enveloping her. Carefully, he stepped forward. Just the mere sound of his footsteps caused her to shrink back.

"Stay… please… stay away from me…"

"Miss Hooper, you have been harmed enough already this evening."

The cold, familiar tone of his voice seemed to somehow comfort her and slowly, she leaned forward and hooked her arms around his neck, embracing him tightly.

He didn't speak, nor did he attempt to push her away. Instead, he carefully scooped her up into his arms and moved quickly back down the alley. He had put her in harm's way; it was now his duty to protect her.

* * *

He took her to his lodgings, where thankfully, Mrs. Hudson had already turned in for the night. Quietly, he moved up the stairs. Along the way, he glanced at Miss Hooper. She was now sleeping, her tear-stained and blood-spattered features set into a look of near peace.

On entering the parlour, he lay her down onto the only sofa in the room and as she slept, he entered into his bedchamber and poured out a small bowl of water to clean himself. It was only removing his coat and waistcoat that he looked into the mirror and saw himself. He had the look of a madman, eyes wide and hair unkempt. Dried blood covered his mouth, chin and neck, and there were scratches on his wrists and arms from when the killer had tried to fight him. Quickly, he looked away and removed his shirt. Bending over the china bowl, he splashed at his face with the cold water.

Why couldn't he remember? Usually, he could so clearly remember when he killed—it was what caused him to resent the way in which he needed to survive. He splashed himself with the water again. This was ridiculous. He wasn't some monster; he was Sherlock Holmes, the genius detective. He was not a madman.

Somehow, he could think of nothing but his brother.

_All lives end. Caring is not an advantage._

He had said those words soon after the two of them had been turned; turned by their father in a fit of rage. It was with a wry smile that Sherlock recalled the night it occurred. Although the two of them had already been born with vampire blood within their veins, their mother had been unwilling to turn them until both he and his brother had turned eighteen. Their father, however, had different ideas. It was better to strike while young, he had claimed. When their mother continued to disagree, their father had stormed into their shared bedchamber and turned them both. Both he and his brother still carried the scars.

Sherlock sighed. Even in his younger years, his father had regularly chastised him for being "so eager" to connect with humanity. So he cut it off, and filed it away in some deep, dark corner of his mind. For years, he lived in that state, his heart cold as he hunted and chased and deduced. Forever searching for that high that only the blood of a human could provide.

An irony then, that his humanity should be brought back by a small, quiet woman who secretly admired the stars.

And that same woman was currently asleep in his parlour. With a quick efficiency, Sherlock replaced his blood-soaked shirt with a new one, poured fresh water into the bowl, took a flannel from his drawers and went to attend to his guest.

* * *

When he entered, she was still asleep, but only slightly. Noiselessly, he placed the bowl of water and flannel on the side table. It was when he touched at her shoulder that her eyes opened. Seeing him, she gasped, but before she could speak, he pressed a finger to her lips.

"Careful, Miss Hooper. There are dangerous people out here tonight."

She made no reply, but her eyes went wide with disbelief.

"Come now. Sit."

Still making no reply, she straightened herself up, allowing him room to sit beside her.

With a touch more considerate than his usual, he examined her features. Aside from the blood spatter, she was not injured. It was merely a small case of shock. Understandable, given what he had put her through this evening.

"Take the bowl, Miss Hooper. Hold it in your lap."

She obeyed his instructions with a small nod of the head, and as he watched her, he again noted the grace of her movements. He had to admire her. The only people he had ever known to have this much calmness in a situation such as his were his brother and himself.

And as he cleaned her face and neck, she still remained as graceful and as silent as ever. It was only when he took the bowl from her that she spoke, her gaze focused on the floor.

"Are you going to kill me, Mr Holmes?"

He could not help but let out a laugh. "Why should I kill you? You have done no harm to me."

"The killer did no harm to you."

The sentence hung in the air, an unspoken question hidden beneath her words. A question he was not prepared to answer.

"Miss Hooper, considering that you are currently wearing a dress covered in the blood of the killer, I suggest that you remove it so that it can be cleaned."

"Won't there be questions?"

"I'm very persuasive," he said with a smile. She attempted to return the sentiment, but it did not quite reach her eyes. So she instead stood and left for the bedroom.

It did not take her long to remove the dress, and soon, she returned, now dressed in nothing but a long chemise and his blue silk dressing gown. Sherlock smiled again and moved towards the fireplace, pouring coal into it. He could feel her gaze locked onto his back as she sat on the sofa, tucking her legs under her chin.

For a while, she watched him make up the fire until eventually, she spoke. "Why did you kill him? That was never part of the plan."

"He was going to die anyway."

"So you were being merciful? Somehow, I can't see that."

"Miss Hooper, tell me. Why are you mourning him? He committed several horrific murders—you yourself confessed that you thought of him as nothing but a 'vandal of women's bodies'—and he attacked you this very evening! If anything, you should celebrate his death, not grieve over it!"

"Well," she murmured, her fingers fidgeting with the folds of his dressing gown. "Perhaps I am as not used to witnessing murder as you are."

"You deal with corpses every day!"

"But I don't put them there."

That silenced him. With a heavy sigh, he sat against the wall and without thought, he picked up his violin, and his fingers gently strummed the strings to some indefinable tune.

_Human_. That's what he was feeling. So… incredibly… human.

That was why he killed the man. The rage that had overwhelmed him wasn't rage at all; it was need. An incessant need to protect the woman who had drawn him out of the shadows.

He shouldn't feel like this. He couldn't. For so many years, the overgrown wilderness of his humanity had been hidden away in his mind, locked away from sight. But ever since meeting her, ever since their first meeting in that library, the lock on the door had been slowly ebbing away into nothing, allowing the wilderness to break free, its vines growing and reaching into even the most impenetrable of rooms.

And he couldn't—wouldn't—stop it.


	4. Part IV

It was a painful and inconvenient truth, but one he had to admit: there was no real need to continue his acquaintance with Molly Hooper. There was however, a very real desire. It was only natural, he reasoned, and so he felt no inhibitions in making regular visits to her home.

They talked of many things during those visits. Mostly, they talked about science, wasting the hours as they debated and discussed a certain theory or an infamous case that one of them had come across in the books they regularly exchanged with one another. Sometimes however, they talked of her. The love she had for science had stemmed from her father, he discovered as he listened to her talk and watched as her pale hands delicately picked at the material of her dress whilst she talked about how though not a rich man, Mr Hooper had been a curious man, forever storing himself away in his laboratory where he would conduct experiment after experiment with his wife and daughter by his side, helping and aiding him with whatever he may have needed.

On other nights, they spoke of him. He would tell her of his life as an immortal, and she would listen in rapture. Eyes growing wide, she would absorb every word that poured from his mouth. In return, he would smile as he told her stories of his adventures, told her how he had survived the three centuries that had made up his eternal life. He continued to speak to her; he told her of his kind's culture, and how he only ever hunted killers, not innocents. It was that at which she laughed lightly, and mused at how one could create a story from the idea of a vigilante vampire detective. His only reaction had been to smile, telling her of his history, how his family had been the rulers of all vampires and their clans for centuries now. How he and his brother were expected to take over the rule.

He knew it was a risk to tell her of what he was and how he had come to be, but he had been keeping everything—tales of his adventures, his equal love and hatred of immortality—inside of himself, cut and tidied away in the darkest recesses of his mind; but then she came along. This woman, this living and breathing woman with a passion for science and a humour black enough to match any vampire, who barely breathed a word when he told her of his life nor showed any fear, no matter how dark or gruesome his tales became. And just as he confided in her, she confided in him. She told him of her fears, her hopes and her dreams. He trusted her, and she trusted him. It was that trust that enabled them to talk long into the night, forgetting everything and anything and allowing the darkness to envelop them as they exchanged secrets and truths.

Whispers surrounded them of course. With every visit, and every gift exchanged between them, the gossip increased. There were rumors that the eminent bachelor Sherlock Holmes had perhaps finally found a prospect, a woman with whom he could settle down.

If only.

* * *

It only came to a head when he chose to escort her to the annual society ball held by one Lord Grantham. As they entered, the whispers grew into audible mutterings.

"Do not blush Miss Hooper," he whispered as they moved through the crowd, his voice a cool breath against her neck. She nodded, and allowed him to lead her onto the floor. They turned and spun, moving in sync with the jovial music being played by the orchestra. Sherlock always found these sorts of events excruciatingly shallow and dismal, but he found that the company of Miss Hooper made the experience a little less so.

"They're looking, aren't they?" she said, her eyes fixed on the crowd around them.

Sherlock gave a little shrug in reply. "It's what they do."

"Sometimes it feels like they'll never stop looking."

It was difficult to know what to say to such a comment as that. It was true; as long as the rumors surrounded them, people would never stop. The side glances, the hushed whispers and the giggling smiles… they would only continue, unending in their banality.

He knew the rumors affected her. As she informed him whenever they were alone, she had tried in vain to deflect the questions and insinuations directed at her, but in their eyes, she was little more than a woman; less than that even. She was just a stupid girl, hiding the truth to try and preserve her honour. The only confirmation or denial they would truly listen to would be his.

And what if he could not give that confirmation or denial that these people wanted so greedily? He had an answer for almost everything, except that.

He brought them to an abrupt halt.

"We shouldn't have come here." The statement was cold; sharp in its bluntness. She merely swallowed a little and nodded. He had to admit it; he would miss the way she could so easily understand him. Slowly, her fingers disentangled themselves from his.

"Go and speak to the other guests," he said quietly before he stepped away from her and left the ballroom. As he departed, he caught sight of her reflection within the mirrored walls, along with his own. She remained stood in the middle of the ballroom, fingers delicately fidgeting with the details of her soft white dress with her head bowed, tendrils of curls just brushing the pale skin of her cheek. He was little more than darkness, hard-edged and out of place.

That was the last thing he saw before he quickly departed from the room. Never once did he look back.

* * *

He returned to his home without the aid of a cab, even though the air that evening was cold and that as he walked, it cut into him like broken off shards of glass. Yet he continued and eventually, he found himself inside the warmth of Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was awake when he returned, and he indulged her in some vague conversation about the events of the occasion but when she inquired after his companion, he refused to provide her with an answer. It was better to be silent than to lie, and so he made his way up to his rooms and stepped inside.

It turned out that he had a visitor; and one that Mrs. Hudson hadn't informed him about. That was to be expected however. His brother never did like to leave behind traces. That same brother was stood against the fireplace, cane in hand. He smiled thinly when Sherlock entered and locked the door behind him.

"Mother and I didn't see you at dinner tonight."

"I was at Lord Grantham's," he replied as he settled into the sofa, steepling his fingers under his chin. His brother nodded, keeping his gaze locked onto the floor.

"With Miss Hooper, I suppose."

"You suppose correctly. Is there any purpose to your visit or not? It must be something important, or you wouldn't have hypnotised my housekeeper."

Mycroft managed to crack a smile.

"It's about the Hooper girl, actually."

"And you've come here to order me to cut her off, erase her from memory. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I've managed that already—and all of my own accord."

There was silence between the two brothers as they considered one another. Eventually, Mycroft sighed a little and moved his gaze towards Sherlock. The look he gave to him was one Sherlock recognized from his youth; a small, cold smile that conveyed both his amusement and sympathy for his younger brother.

"We were born into a prestigious clan, Sherlock—we were always destined to become what we are now."

"That same destiny stripped us of our childhood. Or have you conveniently forgotten the night when our father stormed into our bedchambers and ripped at our throats?"

There was a fleeting moment where Mycroft appeared pained. "It isn't an easy thing to forget. But I didn't come here to rake over old ground. I came here to say to you that Miss Hooper is dangerous. Not just to you, but to all of us."

Sherlock resisted a derisive scoff and instead settled for a quirk of an eyebrow. "The Holmes clan have ruled over vampires for hundreds of years now, Mycroft. And you come here tonight to tell me that one mortal woman risks all of that?"

"When my brother decides to tell that same mortal everything about our culture and our way of life, yes."

It wasn't a statement, but nor was it a question. Cold, and to the point, it was nothing more than an accusation. One which his silence only confirmed. Mycroft sighed heavily, rising to his feet.

"You are a vampire, Sherlock. Act like one."

Yet again, Sherlock didn't reply. He didn't need to. It was perfectly obvious what his brother's words meant. After all... his brother never did like to leave traces.

Sherlock closed his eyes. No. He would not think of it.

His brother gently squeezed at his shoulder, but it was far from a gesture of affection.

"I suggest you do not delay, brother. Every moment you waste, the risk grows. I don't care how much you claim to trust her."

The door closed behind Mycroft with an echo. For a long moment, Sherlock stayed where he was as he delved back inside his mind. The vision of Miss Hooper standing alone in the middle of the ballroom welled up in front of him. Even now, he could see and capture every detail. The way her fingers looped around the heavy fabric of her dress, nails scratching against it, leaving traces to be found. Ringlets of curls brushing against her soft cheek. Crystal cut tears brimming at the edges of her eyes. The pale pink of lips pressed into a too wide smile.

Careless. That was what he had been. Careless to think that he could find and confide in a woman as pure, as understanding as her and think that Mycroft would let her live.

What burned him most of all however, was not the knowledge of how careless he'd been. It was the fact that he was the one who had to erase her.

That fact continued to burn at him; right up until the moment that he knocked on her door.

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_ _This chapter was probably one of the hardest to write. I just couldn't make it work, somehow. I guess the characters just didn't want to do what I wanted. Hmph. _

_But after writing and re-writing and re-writing, I finally got a chapter down that the writing portion of my mind felt happy enough to post. (The shipping part of my mind however, isn't so happy...!)_

_Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed and/or favourited this fic so far. **MizJoely, Simplyspectating, IceQueenForLife, Kathmak, slyblueeyez, SammyKatz, lucy and SallyandMidna**, you're all so wonderful and your kind words are a major part of what keeps me writing._


	5. Part V

She welcomed him with a small smile and a tentative gaze. Quickly, he stepped through, his stance and demeanor giving away nothing at all. Together, they made their way through the hall towards the living room, her following on after his long, purposeful stride. He said nothing to her, and as such she said nothing to him. She merely allowed him to sit down on her sofa and he watched as she bent over the fireplace, assembling it together. Soon, flames licked and fought with another, the smoke billowing up and out of the chimney.

Her rooms were much like what he had expected them to be. Small, dark. Papers strewn over table surfaces, books left open on interesting pages. All pointing towards a mind that was endlessly inquisitive.

When she had finished assembling the fire, she turned back to face him. He had obviously caught her just before she was to go to bed, for she was dressed in nothing but a pure white nightgown and a dressing gown finished in an inky black hue whilst her hair fell in waves, almost down past the lower part of her back.

It was longer than he expected.

"Forgive my intrusion," he said eventually.

She could see the turmoil in his eyes. He knew by the way she carefully sat down beside him; the way she gently enveloped her hand in his.

He swallowed slightly. "I hope my sudden departure didn't impede on your evening."

"It didn't." It did.

"Lord Grantham quite understood, really. I was soon paired up with another—"

Images flashed up in his mind, jealous and possessive, stabbing at the very thing she had opened up. Another man's hand on her waist, another man holding her close, smiling at her jokes, making her laugh how he had made her laugh. He wrenched his hand away from her, pressing his palms against his temple. Why was he feeling like this? So… angry. Hurt.

_Human_.

"I'm sorry—" she said quickly, her tongue working faster than her mind. "I didn't mean—"

Catching her by the neck, he took claim over her mouth. Her breath caught, but her arms wrapped themselves around him, caressing and clutching at the thick fabric of his coat; a wordless demand. Delving deeper into the embrace, he complied. The coat landed with a thump on the floor, but his mind was elsewhere. She was warm against him, warm and malleable and tempting and everything he wished and desired for. His palms rested at her hips, pulling her closer and closer to him. Their breaths moved as one. Silent demands were made and obeyed between them. The hand he had at her neck trailed down her back, gently tracing at her skin, exploring what he could never have before this moment.

"I dream of you," she panted against his ear, the curls of her hair falling in trickles around her shoulders. He smiled, catching her mouth again.

"What kind of dreams?"

"Feverish."

Throwing her leg over his lap, she straddled him and with a smile, kissed him once more. It struck him that it wasn't just he who was claiming something; it was her too. She was claiming him, telling both herself and the world that he was hers as she was his. In that moment, he had never cared for Molly Hooper more.

And that was exactly why he was here.

"Molly," he said between kisses. "There's something I must tell you."

She frowned, eyes gleaming in the firelight. A smile grew on his lips as he reached up and touched at the honey brown curls. He could do it now. He could simply snap her neck and be done with it; leave her body to be discovered weeks from now by a curious beggar or a greedy thief. But that would be an act of a monster. He would not be that.

"My brother knows of you," he said finally, his voice barely a murmur. He didn't dare look into her eyes as he spoke again. "He… he believes in not leaving traces."

Her touch froze, and withdrew. A certain kind of coldness fell over him as she gently touched at his face, her thumb brushing over the edge of his jawline. Eventually, he gained the courage to look at her. The sympathy in her eyes could've broken a mortal man's heart a hundred times over.

Wordlessly, she pressed another, softer, kiss to his mouth. The fact that she so readily understood that which he refused to burned.

"Is there…" she paused, the words on the tip of her tongue. "Is there any other way a mortal could die?"

For a long time, he stared at her, eyes narrowed. Even now, she continued to surprise him. But no. He could not do that. Not to her. He shook his head.

"I could not. You would be little more than a Half-Breed. You would be… derided, hated, loathed. Your safety would constantly be thrown into question. I could not—I will not—subjugate you to that." At this she nodded, but when she gently squeezed at his arm, he knew her thoughts almost immediately. Any life with him would be worth the subjugation. He had to confess: it was the same for him too. Already, he felt so protective over her, endlessly filled with the need to keep her from ones who would harm her. (The irony of that felt bitter on his tongue.)

If he could, he might've said "tradition be hanged" and turned her at will anyway. That was, of course, impossible. His father had defied the pure blood traditions of the Holmes clan once before when he had mated with the mortal woman he and his brother called Mother. 'Hybrids' were what they were called, what they were categorised as. The first of their kind within the Holmes clan. Their father had tried to repair the damage by turning both them and their mother, but the stain was already there, seeping and oozing into the once perfect pure blood tradition. Every step they took, every year they grew, they muddied the waters. Other pure blood clans used their very existence against them, claiming the Holmes' no longer fit to rule. Battles were fought, blood was shed. Their own father, the root cause, was lost in one of those battles. Mycroft tried to keep things calm; even going so far as to mate with and marry the eldest daughter of the pure blood Inkwell clan in a veiled attempt of a truce. Yet the threat of battle, the threat of revolt, always followed them and their reign.

Somehow, in some way, she saw this. She looked into his eyes and saw the turmoil he had endured for three centuries. And she smiled.

Slowly, her hands reached up over and around her head as she scooped her hair and delicately twisted it around her shoulder. The skin of her neck was pale, soft and inviting. Even now, she could still surprise him. Movements calmer than his thoughts, his hands embraced the warmth of her skin, fingers tracing against her shoulders and collarbone. Her body was still, her heartbeat normal.

_You are a vampire, Sherlock. Act like one._

He pulled his hand away, shaking his head. He couldn't. He just couldn't erase such a mind as hers—it was selfish, but he wouldn't. He would take her away from London, hide her somewhere… they could live together, somewhere abroad, far away from prying eyes and gossiping mouths. They would be there in peace; they would be together.

Mycroft would find them, eventually. But just a few more months couldn't hurt. Could they? Yes, they could. After all, surely it was better to live with the dream than the memory. If he made memories, those couldn't be erased. Dreams could.

Her eyes found his again. They were brimming with tears. Yet still she smiled.

"Perhaps, in another life, I could be your queen."

He felt himself smile as his hand touched at her neck again. "Yes, you could."

She reached up and drew his hand away from her neck. The kiss she placed against his knuckles was gentle; a silent word of forgiveness. He laced his fingers against hers and finally, bent his head. Her scent was something he had grown used to over these last few months, but as he nuzzled against her heated skin, it overwhelmed him, engulfing him in not just the familiar metallic scent of blood but the soft, sweet scent of her, like lemons, antique books and the ink with which she used to scribble down notes. He could feel his mouth burn dry with wanting. Just for a moment, he looked at her and within her eyes he saw his reflection, the one he only ever saw when he was to take a life. Veins protruded from under his eyes; eyes which were covered by a thick veil of black. His once youthful skin had become sallow.

"I am not afraid." Those were her only words. Tender and kind, he knew she meant them. Looking away from her, he breathed in that scent that was so very intoxicating. He could feel it building inside of him: the wanting, the animalistic desire to empty her body of the life he craved so very much. But it wasn't quite there yet. He could still let her know, could still make her see that this was not what he truly was. He was Sherlock Holmes, a detective whose heart had been stolen by a not just a mortal woman, but a woman who encased passion and let her kindness breathe. How could he tell her? How could he let her know just how much she had changed him and influenced him? How could he tell her that he loved her, body and soul?

He tugged her closer to him, wanting to feel her against him. She pushed herself against his body, her arms locking around his neck. Her breath was warm against him, and her cheeks were wet against his. The kiss he placed against her collarbone was one of lingering tenderness. "I love you," she whispered. "I forgive you."

He couldn't hold back any longer. He could not fight. Pain shot through his mouth as the fangs with which he would take her life grew forth.

The next time he pressed his mouth to her neck, it was to bite.

* * *

The last sound she had made was a gasp. A short, sharp gasp. Her arms, once tightly locked around his neck were limp by her sides. Yet still he did not move. Numbness grew over him as he cradled her, slowly rocking back and forth. His mind raced, seeing everything but registering nothing. He would remember nothing about this night; he wouldn't remember what led him to this point, nor what he had done after, but he would remember her words. He would remember the short, mewling gasp. He would remember her death.

He didn't know when he had begun to move, but he did know that he was heading straight for her bedchamber. She needed to be somewhere dignified, somewhere with peace.

Similar to the living room, it was small and dark. The only light he could see by was the moonlight through the bedchamber window. Everything about him was numb. He went through the motions. After laying her body on the bed, he took a bowl, and poured water into it. Deftly, he untied and removed her dressing gown from her body, leaving her naked for nothing but her nightgown. He took a flannel and washed her. Any trace of blood was wiped clean from her and from himself. The wounds had already begun to heal. Her hair was the one thing he did not touch. Finally, he stopped, kneeling beside the bed. If he were anyone else, he might've thought her to be sleeping. Instead, he just hoped. Imagined that this whole night was a dream—no, a nightmare—and once from which he might just soon wake up.

That was not to be. She remained still, skin chalk white and her eyes closed. He leant forward and kissed her forehead. The fact that it was still somewhat warm shattered him. Standing up, he turned away from her. Again, he caught his reflection in her mirror.

His lips twitched into a smile. Three hundred years, and he had never once shed any tears. Now, on this night, his cheeks were wet with them.

* * *

He left soon after, only to find that a carriage was waiting outside. The driver glanced at him.

"You Sherlock Holmes?"

When he only nodded in reply, the driver shrugged and coarsely told him to get inside. He didn't argue. Defying his brother was what had caused him to fall into this situation in the first place. When he did step inside the carriage, he found that Mycroft was alone. The carriage began to pull away, and there was silence between the brothers as they each considered what to say.

"She'll be provided with a good funeral," Mycroft said. Sherlock scoffed a little.

"How do you know?"

"Even funeral homes aren't averse to anonymous donations." His comment was met with stony silence. Mycroft sighed lightly, gazing out of the window.

"I am sorry."

"No you're not."

"I am, actually. Despite what you've convinced yourself."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Fair enough," he said finally, the sound of his voice strange against the gloom of the evening. "I suppose you know already that I will not forgive you."

"That part was obvious."

The carriage ride continued on. Neither brother regarded the other.

It was Sherlock who was the one to break the silence. "So. What am I supposed to do now?"

Mycroft only smiled thinly. For a momentary second, Sherlock could have sworn to see sadness in his eyes. "We do what we always do brother. Live on in the shadows."

* * *

_**Author's Note: **Okay, so I might've cried a bit whilst writing this. It's those damn feels. But on a happier note, thank you so much to everyone, and I mean **everyone** who has so far reviewed, followed and favourited this fic! There is more coming, by the way, just in case you were wondering. This isn't the end!_


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